The forest never truly darkened in Cindermoor's heart. As Caelum, Lira, and Bram made camp near the old stone circle, soft glows flickered between the trees—faint, uncertain remnants of glimmerlings that had once danced freely through the branches. But they no longer played; they watched.
The shard they had retrieved pulsed faintly, warm against Caelum's chest where it rested in a satchel lined with moss. Its glow grew stronger as dusk deepened, and when Caelum held it, it shimmered faintly with runes that shifted and slid across its surface like whispers of memory.
"We should be cautious," Lira said. "I've heard stories. The Twilight Market… it's not always the same place twice."
"Does it move?" Bram asked, frowning.
"More like… it waits to be found by those who need it," she replied. "Or those who owe something."
They traveled deeper into the Mirrorwood. The landscape bent subtly as they walked—trees that once faced one way now leaned another; moss that clung to trunks vanished and reappeared as if the land breathed differently. Eventually, the forest opened into a hollow ringed with lantern mushrooms. A silver fog rose from the earth, and strange lights danced above the ground like dragonflies made of glass.
Then, suddenly, music.
Not quite heard—felt.
Soft flutes. Distant laughter. The gentle trill of something stringed but unnameable. The twilight itself seemed to pulse with it.
And then, with no warning at all, the market was there.
Stalls unfolded from shadows. Lights sprang up in trees. Creatures and people both human and fey bustled around tables and wagons. Trinkets gleamed—silver earrings that wept when worn, books that whispered the names of lost dreams, cages holding tiny stars that flickered when spoken to. It was beautiful, disorienting, and utterly unnatural.
"Stay close," Caelum warned, but Lira and Bram were already wide-eyed.
A fox-faced woman with thorn-wrapped arms passed by, nodding at them. A child made of smoke sold kisses sealed in jars. A hunched old man offered secrets for tears—"real ones only."
Caelum could feel it—the hunger beneath it all. Not malicious, but inevitable. Every bargain came at a price. Every gift unwrapped a consequence.
A tall figure approached their group. He wore a coat of autumn leaves that rustled with every step. His skin was ashen, his eyes like polished amber.
"Newcomers," he said pleasantly. "Few find the market without… incentive." His gaze fell on the shard. "Ah. Of course. You carry memory."
"We came for knowledge," Caelum said. "About the ancient pact. About what broke it."
The man nodded slowly. "Many have forgotten. But here, memory can be borrowed… or bought."
"We don't want to bargain," Lira said quickly. "Not unless—"
"All things are bargains," the man interrupted. "Even time. Even truth."
He gestured toward a side path, paved with stones that glowed faintly beneath their feet.
"Follow that path. The Archivist awaits. She remembers everything the world forgets."
They hesitated. Bram placed a hand on his axe. "We can leave if it turns sour."
But Caelum was already walking.
The path led to a structure unlike the stalls and tents of the market. It resembled a hollowed tree grown into the shape of a library—wooden shelves sprouting from roots, branches forming vaults of scrolls and glowing leaves instead of tomes.
Inside, the air was still. No one spoke, yet the silence wasn't empty.
A woman stood at the center, her back turned. Her hair flowed like ink down her back, and as she turned, her face was ageless, shifting softly like ripples in a pond.
"You come seeking broken things," she said, not unkindly.
"Yes," Caelum said. He held out the shard.
She touched it with one long finger. The runes glowed and rearranged.
"This is one part of seven," she said. "The pact was sealed with seven truths and broken by one lie."
"Do you know the lie?" Lira asked.
"I remember all lies," the Archivist said with a sigh. "But I do not share freely."
Caelum was silent for a moment. "What do you want in return?"
The Archivist's gaze met his. "I want nothing from you, Caelum. Not today. But I will give you a glimpse—a memory from the time of the pact. Hold the shard."
He did.
At once, the world fell away.
He stood in a grove under a twin-moon sky. The trees were young then, silver and gold. A circle of humans and fey stood hand-in-hand, reciting oaths. One voice, richer and deeper than the others, broke from the chant.
A man. Human. Dressed in hunter's garb. Fear in his voice.
"I cannot let my people starve. The fey have more than they need."
Another figure stepped forward. A fey queen, luminous and grave.
"You would take what is not offered?"
The man looked at the others. Shame flared in his eyes.
"I already have."
The queen's face twisted—not in anger, but sorrow.
The grove dimmed. The pact fractured. Light scattered into shards.
Caelum gasped and returned to the present.
"Greed," he whispered. "It wasn't malice. It was desperation."
"The first crack," the Archivist confirmed. "The rest came later. One shard lies where sorrow once bloomed—a pond called Lunasveil. The path begins at the edge of this market. But be warned: sorrow changes the land."
She stepped back. "Now go. You have more to gather, and less time than you think."
Back outside, the market had begun to fade. The music grew slower, like a music box winding down. Already some stalls had vanished, and the fox-faced woman walked away, her lantern dim.
Caelum turned to Lira and Bram.
"Lunasveil," he said. "That's our next step."
Bram gave a low whistle. "If that Archivist was telling the truth, this is going to get darker before it gets brighter."
Lira looked toward the fading path. "Sorrow always comes before healing."
Caelum nodded.
The wind rustled through the trees once more, and he felt the shard warm in his satchel.
They stepped out of the market, into the deepening night—toward sorrow, toward truth.